


Claim

by ohhtheperiphery



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-26
Updated: 2013-08-26
Packaged: 2017-12-24 16:55:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/942312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohhtheperiphery/pseuds/ohhtheperiphery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is more than one way to claim what is yours, Cersei decides.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Claim

**Author's Note:**

> ** WARNING: Though the focal pairing of this fic is Cersei/Jaime, the mentions of Robert/Cersei are (pretty much canonically) **non-con/rape**. It's important to me to warn for this, but I took it off the Archive Warnings for the overall work, because it made me uncomfortable in the way that it felt like it was labeling the _entire_ fic as non-con. It's not, but there are certainly parts that I want to provide trigger warning for.

She tries lying still, but it's difficult. Robert is a large man; it isn't just where he's inside her that hurts, it's his entire _body_ , looming over her, holding her down. His hands grip at her hips with a ferocity that only cements her suspicions. When she's this still, there's no reason for him to hold her down so harshly, if not to hurt her.

She will not give him the satisfaction. If she struggles or cries out, he'll only enjoy it more, she's certain. He always _says_ he doesn't, but that's after, when he's sick and sober and sorry. The nights he is in her, he likes it, he must -- otherwise it wouldn't keep happening. And it _is_ happening; Robert reeks of wine, grunting above her as he pumps short, quick thrusts between her legs. Cersei lies as still as the dead Stark girl he's happy to pretend she is.

"It's nothing," she tells Jaime, when they're alone. Her brother runs a hand over the discovery he's made of her body. She pulls it away from the purple-green splotch on her hip, frowning.

"I'll fucking kill him," Jaime growls, and her frown deepens.

"No." She slips white fingers against his face, rubbing the pad of her thumb across his chapped mouth. "You won't."

He is going to say something else, opens his mouth to do so, but she puts her own there instead. Her kiss silences him, same as it always has. When they were very young she first discovered it, and it has been her secret weapon ever since. There was a time that Jaime was noisier than she was, when they were so little that they fucked and didn't even have the word for it. She'd found early on that if she kissed him when he was coming, she could muffle some of the sound.

In the dark, Jaime's fingers circle the spots where Robert's hands have left her bruised, ghosting over those purpled places. Her body has become a map, marred and marked by her husband, and her brother -- her twin, her lover, her other half -- is the only one allowed to follow the cartography, to make sense of the grotesqueries her king has made of her.

It isn't any better, the nights Robert decides he doesn't need to claim his rights. There is more than one way to claim what is yours, Cersei decides, on her knees with her mouth full of Robert's cock and his hands buried in her hair. When she does this for Jaime, his hands are always strong and sure, guiding her, the taste of him on her tongue as familiar as the feel of her own fingers pressed against her sex, comforting like the slick wetness she finds there.

Robert leaves her dry as ever. His fingers scrape against her scalp as he holds her in place. The only warmth comes when he does, hard and sudden over her tongue. She hates the taste of him, but it's fine; she's Queen, she is _Queen_ , and the king can take what he will save that she gets what she's due, in the end.

There had been a time that she thought this would be easy. Of course, it had always been Rhaegar in those dreams, with his silver hair and his fair face and his beautiful hands. Cersei can't imagine that he would hurt her like Robert does, but she supposes that just as Robert will never know what it would be like to lay with the dead wolf girl, it will do her no good to dream of dead dragons, of kings and queens that could have been.

She first becomes aware of Robert's infidelities at Greenstone, when he begins sneaking away in the night. It doesn't take much to work it out, and it is easy enough to have Jaime follow him one night to confirm the suspicion. It shouldn't come as a surprise and, Cersei supposes, it shouldn't hurt, though for some reason it does. In her old dreams of being a queen, her king had always loved her. But then, she had also loved him. Besides, she's been fucking Jaime, although in some dark corner of herself she thinks that hardly seems a fair comparison -- she was conceived in her mother's womb with Jaime inside of her. Being with him is as second nature as breathing, is the only constant in the world that has ever made sense.

Somehow she cannot imagine that Robert would understand the sentiment.

"Do you want me to kill him?" Jaime asks, as obsessed as ever with the prospect. _Kingslayer_ , she almost lets the word fall from her mouth. She liked the feel of that word, once. The man who had slain old mad Aerys -- Aerys, who made mockery of her and of her father, and of those stupid, childish dreams she'd once had. But kingslaying has turned out to be as disappointing as anything else; the king that followed has made as much a mockery of her as had the one he replaced.

She runs her hand over Jaime's shoulder, tracing her fingers down into the dip in his collarbone. His skin is warm against her fingers. His eyebrows are drawn together and his dark gaze locked firmly on her. Jaime may not be a king, but she has never doubted his love for her.

"I want him horned," she says, thinking there is nothing better for a stag to be. _Let him wear his crown of antlers_. It would only be fitting, for the beast that mauls her the nights he doesn't have some other slut to stick his cock in.

Jaime is quiet when he takes her in his arms. His hands move over her bare shoulders, tracing the hint of fingertips across her chest, down her front to begin unlacing her corset. She pushes him back on the bed, straddling his hips as they work to undress one another, his eyes never leaving her body, though he knows it as well as the back of his own hand. His gaze alone sends a rush of heat down through her, more than any of Robert's fumbling touches and grunts ever have.

When they were young she would lay beside Jaime in bed, letting him watch her as she rubbed her fingers against herself, thrusting down on their mattress. It always felt good like that, with some fabric between her sex and her fingers, flat on her stomach, making herself come while Jaime watched. Afterwards, he would push inside her, and she'd come again, this time with him, their hands buried in each other's hair and their names whispered like secrets on one another's lips.

Jaime is the best lover, even now. It starts in his eyes; his eyes have never wavered, always watching, as if should he take them off her for even one moment the world might stop, that everything might collapse in on itself and flicker out from existence like a candle extinguished in a gust of wind.

The fabric of her dress tears when Jaime finally gets it off her, but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters except for Jaime; his hands are warm and large, but besides that nothing like Robert's. Even at twenty, Jaime is still all lion cub; he nuzzles his face into the crook of her neck and slides his fingers between her thighs, growling soft wordless whispers across her skin. They have to be quiet, they always have to be so _quiet_ , and it never gets any easier, not with Jaime's fingers against her, slipping inside her.

She fucks against his hand, mouthing her own gasps along the length of his neck, down over his collarbone, digging teeth into his skin hard enough to break it when he pushes another finger inside her. She wonders if this is what it feels like for Robert, when he marks her body, lays his claim into her. She licks at the wound she's made on her twin, tasting blood, but other than a sharp intake of breath he doesn't make a sound of complaint.

Jaime draws his hand from between her legs, and she slips her own there to replace it. He leans back against the bed, watching her, eyes still intent and pupils blown wide in the shadows and the candlelight.

"Cersei," Jaime murmurs when she leans over him for a kiss, long and deep and lingering. His hand is still wet with her, and he spreads it down over her cheek. She kisses it, takes his fingers into her mouth, tasting herself on them. Her murmurs her name again like a drunken prayer. It wouldn't surprise her; Robert is drunk on wine, her brother on _her_.

"He doesn't deserve you," Jaime is mumbling into the kiss. "He shouldn't--"

"Quiet." Cersei presses a finger to his lips. He stares at her with a defiant look she recognizes all too well, taking her finger into his mouth, sucking on it. Her breath quickens. "He doesn't have me," she tells him. She runs her free hand along the bloody line she's left behind on his collarbone. He doesn't shy away from the touch.

"No," Jaime agrees or relents, running his hands along the curve of her bare waist, pulling her down into his lap, "not tonight."

He's hard when she wraps her hand around him. He grabs her wrist, shoving it aside and overturning her. Cersei spreads her legs for him, a soft moan ripped from her almost like a sigh when he pushes inside her. His thrusts are sure and deep, strong as Robert's, but the similarities to fucking her husband end there; she's so wet and her twin feels so good, as she moves her hips to match his strides. Cersei buries her hands in his hair, holding his face to her own as he shudders against her, inside her.

"Please, Jaime," she whispers, "oh gods, please, _please_."

His lips move down the side of her face, soft on her neck, followed by the hint of his tongue, light enough to make her shiver. When he leans back, above her, he stills for a moment, still so hard and buried deep inside her. It takes everything within her to still the movement of her own hips, to lie open and bare and motionless beneath him.

He runs the hint of a fingernail across the stub of her nipple, smiling when she gasps. "So beautiful," he tells her, whispering, leaning down to replace his fingers with his mouth. She shudders and ruts suddenly against him, but he holds her hips firmly in place.

"The most beautiful woman in all the kingdoms," he continues, murmuring the words into her skin, punctuating them with his lips, his tongue. She yanks at his hair, tries thrusting her hips to get him to move inside her again, but he only laughs.

She all but growls, pulling harder at his hair, her patience wearing thin. He's still laughing when he grabs her wrists, forcing them above her head so that she's stretched out along the sheets, spread beneath him. It makes her feel vulnerable, exposed, but with Jaime that's all right -- with Jaime inside her she's complete, she's safe. She groans softly and strains uselessly under his hold. "Please," she whispers.

"Tell me what you want."

She closes her eyes and flexes her fingers. She's starting to get pins and needles feelings in her hands, but it doesn't matter. "Fuck me," she whispers, "I want you to fuck me."

"Just that?" He gives her one good thrust, hard, rocking through her whole body. He leans forward so that he's whispering against her skin; she can feel the shape of his words kissed along the side of her cheek. "Or do you want me to come inside you, to make you a little lion or lioness that can rule the Seven Kingdoms?"

The moan that rips out of her is startling in the quiet of the room. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Jaime continues, voice dangerously soft. "All these years we've tried not to -- couldn't let anyone know, couldn't... But now it's what you _want_ , you want to make a child, with me--"

" _Please_ ," she hears herself repeating, her voice straining like the rest of her body. She draws him closer to her with her legs, her hands still pinned beneath his. "Oh, Jaime, please, I want it, I want you, Jaime. Come in me, make me come, I _need_ you, I--"

He cuts her off with his thrusts, sudden and hard and deep. He lets go of her wrists to wrap her in his arms, and she returns the embrace, tangling one hand in his hair, the other at the small of his back. She digs her nails in, pulls him closer, if possible. She needs for him to be closer. She needs him inside of her, to claim her in all the ways Robert cannot, in all the ways Robert _never_ will, she will not allow it. She needs to claim _him_ , to take him inside of herself and make something new, some new life that is theirs, that is _hers_ , that no one -- Robert or otherwise -- will ever be able to touch, will ever be able to take away.

He gasps in her ear when he's close, his voice breaking on her name. "Sister, sweet sister," he moans, and she comes with a voiceless groan, lost in a choke of air, lost in the salt taste of his skin, her fingers sliding through the sweat at his back. Jaime follows shortly after, stilling on one final thrust. Their fingers tangle, sticky and slick. He does not pull from her immediately, staying inside her instead, stroking at her hair as she stretches, content beneath him. She runs her fingers over the slope of his spine, closing her eyes and feeling every inch of him that she can.

Cersei kisses the side of his face, the bones beneath his eye, down over his cheek until she finds his lips. It's a soft kiss, gentle and indulgent for what they've just done. They nuzzle at one another's faces; she can still feel the warmth of his seed inside her. "Brother," she whispers, against his lips, so similar to her own. "My brother." His hair is soft between her fingers.

It is more than a moon's turn later, when she comes to him with the news, stolen away in the depth of the night. She hasn't bled, and her body is starting to swell and change shape to show the world a secret, wordless but bodily spoken; a secret of the spaces she and her twin inhabit, fill and share within each other.

Jaime slides his arms around her, fondling at the curve of her breasts. She takes one of his hands in her own, slides it down to rest on top of her stomach.

He knows without words, the meaning of the gesture. His fingers flex there, above the space where their child is inside her. He kisses the side of her face, and her eyes flutter shut.

They stay like that for some time, not speaking, Jaime's hand just pressed against the swell of her belly, letting the moment be what it is. She will have to tell Robert soon, of course, and they will have to pretend that the child is his. It will be Baratheon, stolen from her in name, though not in blood. But for now the moment -- and the child -- is theirs, and theirs alone. Cersei closes her eyes, tracing small shapeless patterns over the back of her brother's hand.  



End file.
